Back in 9th grade, Mr. Dupuis was a scary algebra instructor who made you stand in front of the class at a light table that reflected one's shaky and usually erroneous numbers on a screen in the front of the room, demonstrating your proficiency in problem-solving or obvious lack thereof. He scared the hell out of me and I didn't do well in the situation. So, he called my folks in for a conference and told them I'd never be better than a C-minus student in Math, if that. My mom had no problem sharing that dismal prognostication with me later in the day. She enjoyed belittling me.
Kind of like Wags, my X troll, who had no trouble making demeaning remarks toward me on the Twitter platform with regard to my blogsite and my books. What Wags and my mom didn't realize was that I saw their self-satisfied critique of my accomplishments as an opportunity, a challenge. I decided way back in 9th grade right after Mr. Dupuis's assessment just as I did last night after Wag's that I couldn't be defined by their words, by their limited knowledge of me.
I returned to class changed. Mr. Dupuis saw it. I was no longer afraid of him or his damn light table. My grades shot up from a low C/high D to As. And I went on from there through the rest of primary school excelling in every Math class I took. I even did well enough on my SATs to qualify for MIT. Not that my mother would ever allow me to attend college away from home. God forbid I'd get raped. Lovely woman, wasn't she? The moral of the story was that I don't listen to people who have small minds.
I ended up loving writing more than solving equations, however. My son does that. I prefer to use my logical and analytical mind more creatively. As a result, I took to screenwriting and, finally, novel writing. But, I don't write formulaic crap. And I won't allow publishers to tell me what I can and cannot include between my covers. Each story is a work of art and proceeds in a very rhythmic way through a maze of dialogue, action, and exposition to a satisfying conclusion.
Unfortunately, in order to publish my own works, I am forced to classify them as "erotic romance". This is loosely defined as a love story with a happy ending that includes sex. Whenever I use those two words to tell people about my novels, however, they immediately blush with pleasure (if female) or flush with embarrassment (if male).
Sure, there's sex. Why wouldn't there be? Who hasn't done it in their lifetime in some form or another? I'm not ashamed to expose it in all its graphic beauty. But. My. Stories. Are. More. Much. More. My male friends and family shy away instantly, to their credit (perhaps) but also to their loss. My novels are good. Engrossing. Amusing. Educational. Inspirational. My female friends and family are instantly aroused, if but for the wrong reason. If they want to read soft porn, there's plenty of that on the market already.
Read my literature for the following three reasons: 1) sophisticated story lines; 2) intricate plot development; 3) coherent character evolution. Those are the three things my novels all share and in which I am very proud. Book clubs could dissect my novels along with the likes of Steinbeck. I don't write erotic romances.
So, I'm planning to fix up this pathetic blogsite so people who want to explore my works and my writing style can find it and participate in it effectively. I'm happy to dialogue about why I consider my novels substantive and competitive in more genres than just this silly one. And help others perfect their own unique stories and writing styles.
In the meanwhile, I also need to finish my fourth sequel. It explores the psychological impact on a loved one of a sudden physical deformity. And, yes, there's the usual picturesque, if not poignant, sex.
I have to thank Mr. Dupuis, my outspoken mother, and dear Wags for this challenge. I'm dauntless.
I love your candor. Keep it up.